


The Road Goes Ever On

by darke_wulf



Category: Sherlock (TV), The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-12
Updated: 2013-01-20
Packaged: 2017-11-25 05:08:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/635440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darke_wulf/pseuds/darke_wulf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for <a href="http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/2235.html?thread=2418363#t2418363">this prompt</a> at the kink meme (with a few slight changes):<br/>Bilbo Baggins was reborn as John Watson, and remembered who he was just before he was invalided home to join up with Sherlock Holmes, possibly due to the wound that got him invalided home (whole life flashing before his eyes, only it isn't the right life?).</p><p>Sherlock Holmes is either Smaug or Sauron, and he has no idea who he used to be.</p><p>Where this whole thing hits a snag, however, is that Thorin Oakensheld was reborn as Sebastian Moran, and he remembers everything too.</p><p>He's never met John Watson face to face, and so doesn't know that the man he's been contracted to kill was once the love of his life. Then the two of them meet and everything changes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Season 1, Episode 1:  ASiP (1/3)

**Author's Note:**

> _Disclaimer: I don't own them. I'm not making money from them._
> 
>  
> 
> _Author's Note: The story picks up during Season 1, Episode 1 (A Study in Pink), when John is kidnapped by Mycroft. I'm assuming some familiarity with the episodes, and so will not be describing each event in detail unless they have been changed from what was seen in the series._
> 
>  
> 
> _Also, I'm taking some liberties with Tolkien canon in this chapter regarding the Undying Lands. Hopefully it won't upset anyone too much._

**Bold dialogue below is taken directly from ASiP.**

******

_The Road goes ever on and on_  
 _Down from the door where it began._  
 _Now far ahead the Road has gone,_  
 _And I must follow, if I can,_  
 _Pursuing it with eager feet,_  
 _Until it joins some larger way_  
 _Where many paths and errands meet._  
 _And whither then? I cannot say._

_~ Bilbo Baggins, "The Fellowship of the Ring," J.R.R. Tolkien_

******

**"Remarkable."**

**"What is?"**

**"Most people blunder around this city and all they see are streets and shops and cars. When you walk with Sherlock Holmes you see the battlefield. You've seen it already, haven't you?"**

Doctor John Watson wasn't sure what to think of the man standing in front of him, who had invaded his personal space as if it was his right, without so much as a by your leave.

**"What's wrong with my hand?"**

**"You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand. Your therapist thinks it's post-traumatic stress disorder. She thinks you're haunted by memories of your military service."**

A man who had stalked him with public phones and security cameras, had him kidnapped, insulted his intelligence, and tried to get him to spy on his potential flat mate – all the while causing every instinct within him to cry out in recognition of all things.

**"Who the hell are you? And how do you know that?"**

**"Fire her. She's got it the wrong way around. You're under stress right now, and your hand is perfectly steady."**

He had been telling the truth when he informed the other man that he didn't seem very frightening, and it had nothing to do with any bravery – or stupidity – on John's part.

**"You're not haunted by the war, Doctor Watson. You miss it."**

It was, instead, due to the certainty rooted deep in his heart and mind that insisted – that screamed out and demanded to be heard – that he could trust and was in fact entirely safe with this man.

**"Welcome back."**

Seeing the man starting to back up, possibly preparing to leave, John couldn't hold his tongue any longer. "Do I know you?"

The unknown man started, obviously surprised. "Excuse me?"

"It's just, you seem familiar. Or rather, _feel_ familiar, I suppose. It's not that I recognize your appearance. In fact, it seems… wrong… for some reason. But standing here, you being all mysterious and demanding at me… it all seems very… routine, almost."

The man laughed. "Once again, you surprise me. You would think by now I would know better than to have any expectations of you at all, except perhaps that you will always choose to act in the most unexpected manner possible." Suddenly a strange, wispy, pulsing light seemed to leave his form and make straight for John, surrounding him before he could attempt an escape. "We have indeed met before, though that was long ago and far away, Doctor Watson." The man paused, and for a moment another face was overlaid on top of the one before him; an aged, bearded face, full of wrinkles from both joy and sadness, with a large nose and eyes that had beheld wonders and terrors beyond comprehension. "Or should I say Bilbo?"

Pain suddenly spiked through John's head, as if he had been lanced through with a ( _sword_ ) bullet. He brought his hands up to cradle his head, but that only made the pain worse when they ( _unexpectedly_ ) found close-crop hair. He collapsed to the ground, rocking back and forth as strange visions attacked his mind. His shoes ( _shoes_?!) scraped along the dirty floor, and it was only with a great force of will that he did not rip them off ( _why was he wearing shoes_?). He saw himself growing up in a ( _hole in the ground_ ) small house in England. He saw himself studying ( _maps and stories and cultures beyond the Shire_ ) medicine, and ( _dreaming of adventures_ ) going off to war. Tears spilled from his eyes as the pain of two sets of memories, two completely separate lives, fighting for dominance nearly overwhelmed him.

Then, distantly, he felt a strong hand on his ( _wounded_?) shoulder. "Be at peace, Doctor John Watson. Be at peace, Bilbo Baggins."

His head tilted up, almost of its own accord, and wet eyes looked blearily up at the ( _well known_ ) stranger beside him. "Ga… Gandalf?" he croaked, barely forcing the words out of his aching throat.

"Such was the name by which you once knew me," the other man replied, tightening his grasp on John's shoulder.

"But…but we traveled to… the Undying Lands?" John rasped uncertainly, allowing the other man to pull him up and deposit him in the nearby chair. Though the pain had mercifully lessened, the confusion remained as he suddenly found himself with two sets of memories, both seemingly equally compelling.

"And what, precisely, did you think made them undying, my dear Bilbo? The opportunity for weary souls to become reborn, to start over with a clean slate if you will, and heal from past hurts so that they may move on unburdened."

"Even you?"

"No, for the Istari it is not so simple. Our spirits may rest there for a time, as the Ages pass, but eventually we must chose new forms and continue our work in the world."

"Which is why you look nothing like Gandalf the wandering wizard, while I'm the spitting image, minus a pair of bloody big feet, of Bilbo Baggins?"

"Precisely," Gandalf exclaimed, beaming down at John as if he was a particularly perceptive student.

He'd never really cared for that look. "So what, exactly, is going on then? Is this all just one giant wheel, where we keep reliving the same lives over and over again?"

"Is that truly what it seems to you, good Doctor? Has your current life really been so much like your past?"

"Well, no, not really. Though there have been certain similarities, now that I've had it shoved in my face – thank you very much for that, by the way. A simple, unassuming beginning, being dragged into an adventure, a rather meddlesome wizard."

"And yet, this time it was not a wizard that drew you into your adventures."

"No. I suppose you've got a point there. But still, is that what we're about? You're not the first person I've met to whom I reacted with uncommon familiarity. Are we all just continuing along, lifetime after lifetime?"

"Not all souls that are here were there, and not all souls that were there are here. And amongst the Old Souls, very few actively remember their past lives. At most, they see only glimpses during their deepest dreams."

"Hmm. And you decided to grant me the pleasure of joining the ranks of the former. Are you sure I'm not being drawn into another adventure by a wizard, Ga –" John broke off before finishing the name and tilted his head up at the taller man inquisitively. "What should I call you? I assume you're not still calling yourself Gandalf, but I don't have any other name for you."

A sly smile crossed the other man's lips and he bowed slightly with a flourish of his hands. "Mycroft Holmes, at your service."

"Mycroft _Holmes_?" John exclaimed.

"Indeed, elder brother of one Sherlock Holmes, of whom I believe you are acquainted."

John sputtered for several seconds, equal parts perturbed and hurt. "What was all that then?" he finally asked. "Trying to get me to accept money of all things to spy on your own brother? I'd think you'd know me better than that, after all these years."

"While the core character of an individual does not tend to change, without at least significant interference by external forces, it is inadvisable to assume that all that was true of a person before is still true of them now. I needed to make certain that in all ways you were still the strong willed, yet soft-hearted, hobbit I once knew."

"And did I pass muster then?"

"With flying colors, as they say."

John couldn't help but stand a little straighter at that, chest puffing out a bit. Still, he had several unanswered questions, more now than before in fact, and he wasn't about to let Gan – Mycroft – off the hook. "So who was Sherlock? Of all those I've met so far, he's the one to strike me the hardest, besides you that is. And I assume he must have been someone of importance, to have you looking out for him even now. Was he Aragorn, perhaps?"

"You do Aragorn a disservice," Mycroft frowned. "Could you ever see him holding so little care for his fellow man, Doctor? Even as a façade?"

"No, no I suppose not. But who else would merit your direct protection."

"And what if I am not here to lend protection _to_ Sherlock, but instead protect the world _from_ him."

"Surely… no, he couldn't be Sauron?!" John exclaimed, jumping up from his chair as his mind immediately brought up the worst case of which he could think.

Mycroft chuckled an eminently familiar laugh – John could almost see the colored smoke rings rising from his mouth to dance about his head and it made him ache for his own pipe, though in this life he had never smoked. "Nay, not as bad as all that. Sauron, quite thankfully, has remained nearly powerless and quite cut off from this world since the destruction of his Ring."

"Then who –"

"Come now John, surely it is not so difficult to determine. Though I wonder if I should assist you in this; your presence has been doing him a world of good. Lends quite a bit to the argument of nurture versus nature. I would hate to see you abandon him because of a life long since passed, little barrel rider."

Even confused as he was, with his past all mixed up with his present and him not having had time to truly sort out his head, it didn't take long for John to remember that reference. Certain experiences stood out more than others, and only when he had been dangling by a supposed friend's hand above a deadly drop had he been more frightened than in that singular conversation with –

"Smaug!" John cried, stumbling backwards, nearly falling to the ground when his cane tangled up in his legs. "You mean to tell me I've been spending time with – considering rooming with – Smaug of all creatures?! How was he reborn, anyhow? He certainly could not have been allowed into the Undying Lands!""

"One does not need to have journeyed to the Undying Lands to be reborn. Traveling there merely guarantees what otherwise would be left up to chance, or perhaps fate. And as for your other questions, you have been spending time with Sherlock Holmes, who has no recollection of any past life he may have led, reptilian or otherwise."

"But… but… but Smaug!" John shouted, his mind stuck back in the depths of the Lonely Mountain, in the dark, cavernous throne room; his pulse raced as he recalled the stench and pain of his own hair and skin scorched by dragon flames.

"John Watson, you will stop this behavior immediately!" Mycroft roared.  The sound of his umbrella striking the floor rang through the building while rumbling shadows gathered around him.  He seemed to grow in stature, looming above John, whose mouth snapped shut immediately. "I expected better of you than to judge a being based on events of a previous life."

"I'm sorry, weren't you the one just going on about protecting the world from him?"

"And as long as my spells hold the world will be safe, at least from him! Sherlock may be slightly… out of touch with human emotions and interactions – understandably so, I'd say – but he is no longer a creature of Morgoth, destined for evil. Nor does he remember so being. Really, I am beginning to regret allowing you your memories back, Doctor."

John's curiosity – the one emotion capable of overpowering all his others, regardless of the Age – stuck on that. Which was, he realized, most likely Gan… Mycroft's intent. But still, the questions remained. "Yes, why did you force my memories upon me? What are you up to now?"

"Up to? Up to?" Mycroft repeated, affecting an incredulous tone.

John scoffed, unimpressed. "Don't act so offended. It seems, from your explanation at least, that the one constant through all the Ages has been your meddlesome self."

Mycroft drew himself up again, though the attending shadows had thankfully retreated. He held his stiff posture for a few seconds then, chuckling, relaxed once more. "How I have missed you Halflings and your demandingly direct – though exceedingly polite – natures."

"Still not answering the question."

A sigh left Mycroft's lips, and he suddenly seemed weary in a way John had only seen a handful of time before, though never in this skin. "A very old friend is in desperate need of your help once more, I'm afraid."


	2. Season 1, Episode 1:  ASiP (2/3)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Disclaimer: I don’t own them. I’m not making money from them._
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _Author’s Notes: Once again taking some liberties with canon. Sebastian Moran here will be known, at least to those in military circles, to be a general scoundrel and not a good man. He has been dishonorably discharged for various acts of mercenary and murder. John, formerly of military circles, is aware of this._
> 
>  
> 
> **Bold dialogue below is taken directly from ASiP.**

“An old friend?” John asked, looking up at Mycroft suspiciously, eyes narrowing. “How old?”

Mycroft didn’t reply. Instead, face somber, he pulled a photograph from the inner pocket of his jacket.

It was a stock photo; the man shown wore a Colonel’s uniform. He was clean shaven, and his hair was cut to military precision. John recognized him instantly.

“Thorin,” he whispered, slowly reaching for the photo, stopping before he touched it, as if it would disappear if he did.

“He goes by a different name, now,” Mycroft informed him, eyes showing a sadness that his face was trained to suppress. “Sebastian Moran.”

“Not Colonel Sebastian Moran?” John gasped. “No! Not Thorin!” Thorin couldn’t have possibly fallen so far. Sebastian Moran was infamous. He had been court-marshaled from the military with a list of crimes longer than John’s arm. Theft, murder, torture – from what John had heard there was no limit to what Moran had been willing to do for the right price. He had somehow managed to disappear before his hearing had been completed, however, and hadn’t been seen since. At least, as far as John knew. 

Mycroft started to place the photo back in his jacket, only for John to quickly reach out and snatch it from his hand, though he did not look at it, merely clasped it tightly. “Thorin Oakenshield is no longer the dwarf that you knew. He died while under the curse of dragon’s gold, strengthened by the death-curse of the same dragon.”

“Death-curse?”

“Dragons were vicious, vengeful creatures, and had their own inherent magic. Part of this was the death-curse, allowing them, even in death, to bring pain and desolation to their enemies. Smaug was the rule, not the exception, for his kind. He did not have name or face with which to curse you or Bard, but he knew dwarves were also part of your company. He concluded that this meant Thorin was in some way involved. These suspicions were enough for him; he set his death-curse – with all the strength of the hatred in his dark heart – upon him. And it struck true; deepening the gold-lust and insanity that ran in the line of Durin, bringing death to him and his heirs and then following him even into death.”

Mycroft paused, tapping the tip of his umbrella rhythmically on the floor as he backed away from John slightly and turned, staring distantly at the machines behind them. “Twice before has Thorin been reborn, and each time his soul has become darker and more corrupt, his obsession with riches more absolute. This is his last chance to redeem himself. If he does not repent of his actions the Valar will wash their hands of him entirely.”

John’s heart gave a painful throb at these words. “But he broke the curse before he died,” he objected desperately. “He forgave me for my betrayal. And he apologized for his own words and actions against me.”

“He briefly pushed the curse aside, yes,” Mycroft replied, turning to face John once more. “But it was not broken.”

“Then what on Earth do you expect me to do? What can I possibly do against something that powerful?”

“As you yourself said, he was, once, able to temporarily overcome the curse. He was desperate enough, determined enough to not part from you on bad terms that he was able to ignore its evil whisperings and make peace before his death. Which makes you our last hope. If you cannot help him break the curse, he will be lost forever.”

“What about Smaug?” John asked. “Couldn’t he break the curse, if he was the one to cast it?”

“Smaug is no more. And Sherlock has no magic, even if he had his memories back and knew how to wield it.”

“So that’s it then?” John shouted, stalking towards Mycroft. “You’re just going to abandon Thorin again? Leave it to me to try to clean up –”

“Do not try my patience!” Mycroft replied, voice echoing throughout the building. “And do not question me or my methods! You have no inkling of what I have done for Thorin Oakenshield through the Ages, nor is it any of your concern. What I am telling you is that now, at the end of everything, you are his only chance. And now I ask, what will you do for him, whom you once claimed as your king, Bilbo Baggins?” 

******

Mycroft had left soon after, with all the aggravating lack of aid that John was used to seeing in the meddlesome wizard. He had at least had his assistant drive John back to Baker Street, with a stop off at John’s old room to pick up his gun. Just in case.

“Typical. Bloody. Wizard,” he grumbled under his breath as he limped his way towards his new flat. Mycroft hadn’t even seen fit to tell him how to _find_ Thorin… Sebastian… much less how to _help_ him. “I have faith in you, lad,” John muttered in a terrible impersonation of Mycroft’s voice. “Bah. So help me, if a party of uninvited dwarves arrives at my door tonight, I swear I’ll just let Sherlock eat them!”

“What did you say?” the low baritone of his flatmate interrupted his tantrum.

“What? Oh. Nothing. Nothing,” John replied, flustered. Then, hoping to change the subject, he asked, **“What are you doing?”**

**”Nicotine patch. Helps me think. Impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London these days. Bad news for brainwork.”**

**”Good news for breathing,”** John replied, mind going back to the last time he’d seen Sherlock, or rather Smaug, breathing smoke. And fire. And trying to melt him.

**“Uh, breathing. Breathing’s boring.”**

Of course it was. Bloody dragon. Still, as aggravated as he was with Sherlock dragging him back to the flat for no really urgent reason, he saw no harm in sending the text he requested. 

He was, however, more than a little shocked to see that Sherlock had Jennifer Wilson’s case. 

He knew that the police would never have let him take evidence home with him. He wondered to himself just how Sherlock had managed to get his hands on it. And whether or not he should expect the police to be knocking on their door in the near future asking for it back.

Sherlock noticed his disapproval, though he took it to be for the wrong reasons. John would have pointed his error out to him – he got the impression that poking holes in Sherlock’s ego would be his task from now one – if the situation hadn’t have been so sensitive.

 **“Oh, perhaps I should mention, I didn’t kill her.”** he grumbled, irritation – and to a lesser extent disappointment – clear in his voice.

Right. No laughing at live dragons. **“I never said you did.”**

 **“Why not? Given the text I just had you send and the fact that I have her case it’s a perfectly logical assumption.”** he replied, words coming faster and faster out of his mouth, tone turning more and more defensive.

After learning that Sherlock had actually been Smaug, John had been prepared to hate him, in spite of Mycroft’s words. Being in front of Sherlock reminded him of what had drawn him to the man in the first place. He was rude, yes, and difficult to deal with, without question. But he was genuinely trying to help people. Even though, or so John suspected, people had done very little to help him through the years. And whatever anyone, Sherlock included, said, John had seen enough to know that the other man was neither a psychopath nor a sociopath. 

He was, instead, a man who had been beaten and let down once too often in his life, and so chose hide himself behind a gruff, uncaring exterior. John seemed to collect the type, really.

 **“Do people usually assume you’re the murderer?”** John asked, as gently as he could without risking angering the other man.

Sherlock paused at that, and looked up at John briefly in hesitant surprise before turning his eyes back to the case in front of him. **“Now and then, yes.”**

There were many ways John would have liked to have responded to that, but none of them would have been welcomed by Sherlock. Yet, at least. John held out hope. Instead he let Sherlock explain to him exactly how he had outwitted them all and found the case, and his plan for tracking down the murderer. Though he was not pleased to have his phone used to text a murderer.

 **”Have you talked to the police?”** John asked as Sherlock started to get ready to leave.

 **”Four people are dead. There isn’t time to talk to the police.”** Always the stubborn ones. John sighed.

**”So why are you talking to me?”**

**”Missus Hudson took my skull,”** Sherlock replied, petulantly. John’s couldn’t stop his thoughts from going back to Erebor, and he remembered the hundreds of dwarf skeletons, skulls and all, that had remained in its halls. Many of those being within the main hall, where Smaug had made his nest. And then he considered the many long years that Smaug had stayed in that lair, with only those skeletons for company…

Shaking his head, John forcefully pushed those memories to the back of his mind, focusing instead on Sherlock and the small, self-satisfied smile on his face. A smile that seemed to be inviting John in on the joke… Oh, but Thorin would never forgive him… Then Sherlock’s face began to close off, and the other man turned with a huff, tightening his scarf around his neck as he stalked towards the door. John had let the silence linger too long. 

**”So I’m basically filling in for your skull?”** John asked quickly, hoping he wasn’t too late. Sod Thorin. That bloody dwarf had his own sins to apologize for when John finally found him. John wouldn’t allow worries of what Thorin would think to affect his own actions. He’d always been his own man – or hobbit – and that would not change. 

**”Relax, you’re doing fine,”** Sherlock assured him. Then, after a brief pause during which John remained seated, he prodded rather impatiently, **“Well?”**

**”Well what?”**

**”Well, you could just sit there and watch tele…”**

**”You want me to come with you?”** Of course he did. And of course John was tempted by the promise of danger and adventure; damned Took blood. 

**”I like company when I go out. And I think better when I talk aloud. The skull just attracts attention, so… Problem?”**

John looked up at Sherlock. The hesitant, uncertain hope he found there confirmed his decision for him. It would not be fair to Sherlock for John to judge him on events from another life, only on those from this one. And in this life, at least from what John had seen, Sherlock deserved to have someone on his side. Someone he could depend on. Someone who might, eventually, become a friend. Of sorts.

Huffing as he pulled himself up with his cane, he replied, “No, no problem.” He limped over to where Sherlock stood. Raising an eyebrow at the other man, he gestured to the door. “Well? Lead on, then.”

When he saw the small, pleased smile that Sherlock tried to hide, he knew he had made the right decision.


	3. Season 1, Episode 1:  ASiP (3/3)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Disclaimer: I don’t own them. I’m not making money from them._
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _Author’s Notes: From here on out, there are no matching actors between the movies and the TV series (that I’m aware of at least). Please pretend with me that those John/Bilbo recognizes actually resemble the characters in **The Hobbit** movie. Also, I made a slight change to events as they happened in ASiP at the flat during the drug bust. Finally, just to clarify, this chapter is titled 3/3 because it is the last part of the first episode. This story is not complete._
> 
>  
> 
> **Bold dialogue below is taken directly from ASiP (or at least as near as I can get it from listening to it – anyone know where I can get transcripts?).**

First, a huge thanks for all the kudos and comments. I really appreciate the feedback! There’s one specific plot point that I’m hoping to get opinions on, however. That is the ‘curse’ afflicting Thorin. I came up with this as a way to explain Thorin/Moran being, at least according to ACD canon, an unscrupulous, mercenary killer. While Thorin had his faults, I couldn’t see him falling so far without some explanation. But I’m very interested in hearing what you all think. Am I overly complicating things? Please do let me know. Thank you!!!

 

It had been a shock to run into Nori. John hadn’t stopped to consider what it would mean, having his past memories returned. But being confronted with a familiar face, and actually recognizing it, had shocked him so much that at first he hadn’t been able to do more than look between Sherlock and Angelo with what he knew must have been a completely bewildered expression. Thankfully, neither man seemed to notice – or else they just chose not to comment on it. It was nice to finally know _why_ certain faces stood out to him, striking a chord deep inside. 

Though seeing Sherlock and Nori interacting so pleasantly was more than a bit surreal. But John supposed his life had been surreal ever since Gan… _Mycroft_ had decided to interfere in his life yet again. 

Still: not a date. That was just. No. 

The chase across the city had definitely gotten his adrenalin flowing, reminding him yet again that he was not nearly as normal and respectable as he’d like to think. It was worth it, though, to get rid of that bloody cane. And to be allowed to see behind the curtain that Sherlock kept between himself and the rest of the world. After that night, John knew that he would never be able to hold his past life against Sherlock, not after laughing – giggling like bloody schoolgirls, really – with him and seeing how genuinely _happy_ the other man was to help him. The smile that Sherlock had given him when Nor… Angelo had brought his cane to the flat; it hadn’t been his usual gloating, self-satisfied affair. It had been a smile filled with camaraderie and cheer. 

The drug bust had been a less pleasant surprise. As had recognizing Sergeant Donavan. When she had come out to confront Sherlock with the eyeballs he had had in the microwave, he had had to bite his tongue to keep the dismayed cry of ‘Lobelia’ from coming out. Really, of all the people to be stuck with. At the first opportunity, John snuck into the kitchen to check on the silverware. 

Which turned out to be a mistake, as Sherlock took that opportunity to slip out of the flat. And run off with the bloody murderer they’d been after. Daft nutter.

When John noticed that Jennifer Wilson’s mobile phone was on the move, when he realized that Sherlock must have gone after her killer, John’s heart lurched in his chest. He immediately raced off, desperate to get to the college before it was too late. Sherlock wasn’t allowed to die, damn it! Not now, when John was just starting to come to like him. When he was _finally_ starting to think he might have found a place to belong, even if it was with a former dragon turned consulting detective. 

Lestrade’s parting words ran through John’s mind as he rushed through the building trying to find Sherlock, _**“Because I’m desperate, that’s why. Because Sherlock Holmes is a great man, and I think one day, if we’re very, very lucky, he might even be a good one.”**_ Following immediately was the image of the hope and hurt on Sherlock’s face when he thought John was leaving, then the memory of Sherlock going to the extremes he did to rid John of his cane and the joy it had seemed to bring him. John hadn’t known Sherlock long, and given his family’s history he had been careful to avoid being a betting man, but he would be more than comfortable betting on Sherlock already being a good man. Or at least trying as best he could to be one while not clearly understanding the world’s expectation of what exactly that entailed. 

John wasn’t blind, and he wasn’t naïve. He knew Sherlock had his faults. He still had the same obsessiveness that had once upon a time caused him to attack Erebor, though it was now focused on things other than gold. He could still be cruel and thoughtless of others. But John had also seen the way people like Anderson and Donavan treated Sherlock, automatically assuming the worst of him, and thought perhaps at least some of that cruelty and thoughtlessness was reaction to like behavior received. Maybe John was too soft-hearted, as his former Company had so often claimed, or maybe he was putting too much faith in Mycroft, but he honestly believed in Sherlock. He would not abandon him. He would not leave him to die.

When John saw Sherlock and the killer through the windows and realized he was in the wrong building and would never make it to Sherlock in time his breath caught in his throat. He watched as both men raised pills, _poison_ his mind supplied in Sherlock’s voice, to their mouths. John didn’t know how the murderer was forcing Sherlock to also take the pill and quite frankly he didn’t much care. It was enough that he was managing it. John thought of losing the adventure and companionship and genuine happiness he had found, of going back to his former dreary gray existence after this glorious peek at what could be, and he didn’t hesitate for another second. 

Shooting the killer wound up being one of the easiest decisions he had ever made. 

He happened to be watching Sherlock when he figured out that it had been john to shoot the cabbie. John took a great amount of satisfaction in the look of astonished disbelief that flashed across Sherlock’s face. Once again, John had been underestimated. Story of his life.

He was glad Sherlock caught on when he did. If he’d continued on with his deductions too much longer, Lestrade would have easily been able to figure him out. Though the small smile he caught on Lestrade’s face as Sherlock made his way towards John made him wonder if perhaps Lestrade hadn’t already figured him out all on his own. It was obvious the detective inspector wasn’t really a by-the-books man.

But then Sherlock was there, and all John’s attention was taken by the compelling man in front of him.

 **“Um, Sargent Donavan’s just been explaining everything. Two pills. A dreadful business, isn’t it. Dreadful.”** Surely, no one would fault him for playing with Sherlock a bit? He knew the role he was meant to have; it was always the same, the dense but innocently good-hearted straight man. Shame he’d never really fit it all that well.

 **“Good shot.”** Sherlock said, getting straight to the point and letting John know he was no longer fooled, and now knew better than to take John at face value.

 **“Yes,”** John replied, not quite ready to give up the game. **”Yes, must have been, through that window.”**

Sherlock graced John with a profoundly unimpressed look. **“Well, you’d know.”** He paused for a moment to can the area and make sure they weren’t being overheard. **“You need to get the powder burns out of your fingers. I don’t suppose you’d serve time for this but let’s avoid the court case.”**

Right to business then, fair enough. John coughed once as he, too, looked around, wishing he could read more from Sherlock’s emotionless façade. He found himself wondering if this would change things between them. Sherlock had seemed to enjoy John surprising him, failing to fit his expectations, but perhaps this was one surprise too many.

Then Sherlock’s expression was open to him again. The slight concern he saw there warmed and reassured him in equal parts.

 **“Are you all right?”**

**“Yes, of course I’m all right.”** John replied, for once in this life actually believing it.

**“Well you have just killed a man.”**

**“Yes, I... That’s true.”** John paused, trying to decide how best to explain to Sherlock that he didn’t regret his actions. That he didn’t regret saving Sherlock’s life, regardless of the price he’d had to pay. Without miring them both knee-deep in emotions, of course. **But, he wasn’t a very nice man.”**

Sherlock smiled, and John knew he understood perfectly. **“No, no he wasn’t really, was he?”**

They continued bantering as they left the crime scene, then moved on to making dinner plans. Of course that was when, after all the action was over and done with as always, a certain wandering wizard decided to show up.

Sherlock noticed him immediately and stalked over, clearly irritated. Not that John blamed him. John remembered being irritated with Gandalf on a near hourly basis at times during the journey to Erebor, and then again after when it was Frodo he was dragging all over Middle Earth.

 **“So, another case cracked. How very public spirited,”** was Mycroft’s greeting. **“Though that’s never really your motivation, is it?”**

John thought that was rather unfair. Wasn’t Mycroft the one that had been trying to convince John to stay with Sherlock, and not judge him too harshly? What was the blasted wizard’s game this time?

**“What are you doing here?”**

**“As ever, I’m concerned about you.”**

“As ever, I find that hard to believe.”

**“Always so aggressive. Didn’t it ever occur to you that you and I belong on the same side?”**

**“Oddly enough, no!”**

**“We have more in common than you’d like to believe. This petty feud between us is simply childish; people will suffer. And you know how it always upset Mummy.”**

And that was John reaching his limit. If he never heard Mycroft talk about his ‘mummy’ again it would be too soon. “Oh, for the love of – would the two of you stop it!”

Sherlock turned his unblinking gaze on John. “You’re not surprised to see Mycroft, or learn of our relation. You’ve met prior to this.”

“Yes, yes we did,” John admitted. “He introduced himself to me while you were off scrounging through various garbage bins.”

“And you didn’t tell me before now because?”

“Never came up,” John shrugged unconcernedly, though well aware that they were being watched and judged.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed as he studied John, who would have loved little more than a chance to look into that mind to see what he was thinking. Finally he straightened and turned so he was fully facing Mycroft. “In the future, I’d prefer if you make sure it does. Come up.”

John met Mycroft’s amused gaze with his own. “Understood.”

“You seem surprisingly comfortable with him,” Sherlock continued, “especially for only having met once before. I wonder, did he mention his position, by any chance?”

“Position?” John asked, at the same time Mycroft groaned, “For goodness sakes, Sherlock.”

 **“I occupy a minor position in the British government,”** Mycroft explained.

 **“He is the British government,”** Sherlock insisted, **“when he’s not too busy being the British secret service or the CIA on a freelance basis.”**

Sherlock turned and started to leave, pulling briefly on the sleeve on John’s coat to move him along as well. **”Good evening, Mycroft. Try not to start a war before I get home; you know what it does to the traffic.”**

John gave Mycroft a curious glance as he followed Sherlock, not understanding the role he seemed to be playing but not willing to ask about it with Sherlock right there. After one final look back John turned and jogged to catch up to Sherlock. **“So, dim sum.”**

Sherlock hummed in agreement. **”I can always predict the fortune cookies.”**

 **“No you can’t.”** John scoffed, because really there was no way. Deductions base on observation was one thing. Predicting fortune cookies? No.

 **“Yes I can.”** Sherlock insisted, his Cheshire’s grin teasing John, inviting him to join in the fun. **“You did get shot though.”**

 **“Sorry?”** John asked, thrown by the non sequitur.

**“In Afghanistan. There was an actual wound.”**

Right. That. **“Oh, yeah, shoulder.”**

**“Shoulder, I thought so.”**

**“No you didn’t.”**

**“The left one.”**

**“Lucky guess.”**

**“I never guess.”**

**“Yes you do.”** John disagreed, though with only shared amusement in his voice, no scorn or derision. He noticed Sherlock’s grin getting bigger, until he was practically chortling out loud – for him at least. **“What are you so happy about?”**

**“Moriarty.”**

John felt a shiver, of more than just disappointment, run up his spine at the… name?... that was Sherlock’s reply. **“What’s Moriarty?”** he asked, knowing somehow that he wasn’t going to like the answer.

 **“I’ve absolutely no idea.”** Sherlock replied, sounding absolutely gleeful. The bastard.

 _Wonderful,_ John thought to himself as they walked off. _Another bloody adventure._


End file.
